Isabella David McCaffrey

Hexagram 54 of the I Ching

"Dog," she says a propos of nothing, pointing a chubby, accusing finger at the dog, lounging innocently on the settee. We take her outside at dusk for a breath of fresh air after a hot summer's day, just the hour when the moon rises over the field very full and white.

"Moon," we tell her.

"Moo," she cries, lilting the word. Over and over she chants, lowing like a little calf. Ever after, on dark nights of the new moon, she scans the sky perturbed, demanding the miracle of the glowing orb of light. One day soon I will tell her about the Apollo 11 landing conversation, will tell her about Chang'e and her Chinese rabbit, who are rumored to abide on the moon these 4,000 years.

"Just look there," I will say, "for the cinnamon tree under which he stands on hind legs, waiting for his mistress to come home." Those who worship the beauty of the moon, I will tell her, are beautiful in return. And perhaps I will not have to tell her anything at all. Perhaps she will tell me.

the show goes on
moon rises
takes its bow